


for the rain it raineth every day

by revolutionaryfury



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, TW: for mentions of past implied rape, ah well, let's see if anything comes of it, pretty sure i made this pairing up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionaryfury/pseuds/revolutionaryfury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Azelma is stuck out in a storm, meets a kind gent, later meets said kind gent's lover, and the three become some sort of conglomeration. </p><p>Featuring: fifteen-year-old Azelma, disapproving!jolras, and sweet!taire</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the rain it raineth every day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShowMeAHero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/gifts).



It was storming. Well, when one thought of it, "Storming" was an understatement. It was as if God had unleashed all of His sorrows upon the world in a great torrential downpour. The night sky was a deep blue, the whole world hued that way. Rain slung itself against tightly closed shutters as if it were on a suicide mission. It fell sideways, crashing upon the cobbles. It pounded upon tin roofs and beat at the shutters. The wind was wild and slicing, chafing skin and blowing away anything that wasn't all but chained to the ground. The cold was insidious. Even the women of the street and the murderous prowlers that usually lurked in the shadows at this time was night were gone, tucked away in some dark corner.

Gavroche and his mômes were tucked safely inside their elephant statue, laughing at the rain slamming against the elephant's drooping sides. "My boys, this here rain is an angry giant!" the twelve-year-old proclaimed.

The eldest môme, the one who was seven, tightened his grip on his little brother and shrank into Gavroche's sagging mattress. "Monsieur, it's not a real giant, yes?" the little boy whimpered.

The five-year-old began to shake. "A g-g-giant?" he stammered. "Will he tear the elephant apart and eat us for his supper?"

"Why, no, little brats!" Gavroche chuckled. "He's an old coward, this ogre, and wouldn't dare touch my lovely home. He's too scared to, 'cause he knows I would give him a stern talking-to if he did! He'll stay on the outside, lads, if we stay on the inside. Now, it's warm in here and I can hear the rats singing their songs. Let's go to bed."

Eponine wasn't far from her brothers, but she was not going to bed. In fact, she was sitting in a snug library, learning by leaps and bounds. A nice student with spectacles had noticed that she could read and write, and had offered to teach her a few more things.

"Are you warm enough, child?" the kind student questioned. He took off his waistcoat and put it around Eponine's shoulders. "It's chilly out, isn't it?"

"Yes, Monsieur Combeferre," Eponine answered shyly. She had gotten better lately. Less…insane. She had the feeling it was something to do with the student she was sitting next to.

Four out of the five Thénardier siblings were warm and comfortable…but the youngest daughter was not. She was huddled in a doorway in that blue-tinted night in a ragged pair of men's pants and a woman's blouse. The trousers were tan, but the water had seemingly dyed them a grayish color. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her bare feet tucked up under her legs. A torn shawl rested around her shoulders, sometimes providing the illusion of comfort, but then quickly dissipating whenever Azelma thought she might be a smidge warmer.

She shivered violently, her teeth chattering. Her pale lips had turned a light shade of blue, along with the tips of her fingers and toes. Dear Heavenly Father, she thought weakly. Even thinking seemed to take energy. I know I did not believe in You faithfully before, but please grant me some sort of warmth.

As soon as the thought went through her head, her miracle came walking by.

He was an ink-haired man with no cap, his hands shoved into the pockets of his waistcoat. His head was pointed skyward, a smile on his pale face, even though there was rain buffeting him from all sides. This man was one who had something that made him feel as if he were the happiest man in the world. Something that, even on the worst possible days, would light some sort of fire in him that gave him that brilliant smile.

His mistress must be a miracle worker, Azelma thought with a shake of her head. Her wet, matted orange-brown ringlets shook softly. She observed him a bit more, deciding that it must not be a mistress. A wife, maybe. He had the smile of one in love. As he passed by her doorway, Azelma shrank as small as she could go out of habit.

The man stopped.

"Oh. Well, hello there, child," he said softly. His name was Nicolas Grantaire. Poor young thing, he thought. "What are you doing out in this sort of weather?"

"Please, sir," the child begged, "let me be. I'm not a prostitute."

Grantaire started. "A – why, I couldn't think such a thing!" He kneeled down on her level and smiled, though the knees of his trousers were now resting in a puddle that grew rapidly deeper with each raindrop. "Don't be frightened of me, petit," he said softly. "I mean you no harm. I swear it." He looked into her pretty brown eyes, trying to make her see that he was no nefarious man. "Do you trust me?"

Azelma looked into the brilliant blue eyes of this man, deciding that she did. He's in love with someone. He would stay true to his wife, she decided. "Yes, sir, I do," she said in quiet voice.

"Good. You're a gamin, are you not?" At her small nod, Grantaire smiled softly. "Poor thing. You can't be but fifteen. I have a room near. Would you like to stay the night and get out of this rain?" At her panicked look, he spread his hands out. "No, no. Not like that, I swear it. I swear on my dear mother's grave." He continued speaking words of reassurance, swearing that he meant the little gamin no harm whatsoever, that he was already in a committed relationship, and was true to his love. Finally, when his inky hair was plastered to his forehead, his crooked nose was bleeding in a thin stream, and his long fingers had turned blue, he rose to his feet, once again towering over Azelma. "Child, we're both going to die of hypothermia if we don't get out of this cold," he said finally. "I need to go to home, now. I wish you would come with me, but I won't force you to. I'll give you the choice once more: come with me and stay out of the storm, or do not trust me and die of the cold."

"Your nose is bleeding, sir," she observed quietly. She wanted so badly to believe this kind man meant her no harm, but the last man who had said that…well…she couldn't bear to think of it. Although, I did pray to God, and this man walked by just after that. Maybe…maybe it's God's will?

"Ah, yes. A sad side effect of a fun little disease called alcoholism," he said bitterly. "My nose often bleeds."

"Are you intoxicated now?" Azelma asked.

"What – no. I assure you I am perfectly sober. My love doesn't appreciate it when I come home under the influence of spirits." He looked so serious and somber and sad that Azelma couldn't help it.

"I trust you, sir. My name is Azelma Thénardier and I am fifteen years old. I'll come with you." She held out her hand and he took it, taking his arm from one sleeve of his waistcoat and motioning for her to put her own arm in. She stuck her arm in the sleeve, wrapping one soaked arm around the waist of the kind man. "Is this okay, sir?" she asked.

"Indeed. Thank you for trusting me, Azelma. My name is Nicolas Grantaire, but please do call me Capital R. Do you understand the joke?"

"Grand R," Azelma returned. "Very clever, Monsieur." She shivered. "Do you live far?"

"Why no. My love and I live in a modest room just five minutes thataways," Grantaire answered with a smile. "Lord, there's a bitter chill in the air. And look at you, in nothing but a blouse and trousers. Where is your family, child?"

Azelma quickly cast her glance to the ground. Oh, dear. Here was the part where the kind gentleman would make a charity case of her, and 'Ponine had told her to never accept charity. It showed that you were weak. Azelma was more inclined to actually let someone help her, but after The Unnamed Thing that had happened with the Not-So-Nice-Man, Eponine's words echoed in her ears any time someone flipped a sous her way. "My family is my own business," she growled.

"Ah, your father hit you, I suppose. You were abused in ways unimaginable by some nameless man. Your poor mama is rotting in the grave. Your siblings are skinny and starving. Something like that?" There was a sudden bitter hardness in R's voice and Azelma shrank away, preparing to run.

"No. No. I'm sorry. Please don't go."

"You're right," Azelma forced out. "Evil father. Starving siblings." She gritted her teeth and blurted, "Unspeakable things."

"Oh, child," Grantaire murmured, and stopped right in the middle of the storm to give her a bone-crushing hug.

"I didn't…want to. But…I was starving in the street and he found me and told me he could give me food. I believed him…and then he just…" She broke off, her heart pounding. "He told me to never tell anyone or he would slit my throat and do the same to my sister."

Grantaire shook his head. "Who?"

"I do not know. He was large and intimidating, but it was dark and I couldn't see a thing."

"Oh, my child. Please…please let me help you. There must be something I can do."

"There is nothing, Monsieur Grand R. Let the issue be," Azelma said quietly, and continued walking, forcing R along. Finally, they got to his tenement, and out of the rain.

Grantaire opened a door with a large brass key from his pocket. "Well, fair mademoiselle," he grinned, trying to ignore Azelma's horrible story and honor her wish, "this is our humble abode."

Azelma looked around. There was a large bed with a wooden frame that took up most of the room in the direct center. It was plush and dry, covered with blankets, and looked comfortable. There were two wall-high bookshelves on each wall, covered with carefully paginated reports and classic books of literature, some in other languages. There was a tatty circular rug on the floor, and dirty wooden floorboards showed. Grantaire began to stack logs in the hearth for a fire, and Azelma gravitated towards it. Soon enough, there was a blazing, crackling fire warming Azelma's bones, her previously-hollow stomach now filled with bread and wine.

"Thank you, Monsieur Grand R," she breathed sleepily. "No one has ever been kind to me."

"You know, Azelma, if you wish, you could have this always. I'm sure my love would approve of taking in a child of the streets. They fight for equality of all classes, you see," Grantaire suggested.

"Do you mean it, Monsieur?" Azelma breathed. "You would take me in?"

"And gladly. We would protect you and feed you and –" here he pinched the threadbare fabric of Azelma's trousers "– possibly acquire you some new clothes."

Azelma giggled. "Thank you," she whispered quietly. "For everything."

R bowed his head so that their foreheads touched. His breath mingled with hers, and he took her hands in his own. "I will protect you always, Azelma Thénardier."

Azelma couldn't respond.

"Now, then," R smiled. "Let us find you some sleep clothes. He made his way across the small room to a chest full of clothes and began to fish around. Azelma migrated over to him, watching as he sorted through waistcoats and trousers.

"Monsieur Grand R?" Azelma asked. "Why not just borrow one of your wife's nightdresses? If she is as kind as you say, I'm sure she won't mind."

"Ah, here is where the complication arises. Please do not think of me as a harmful person after I say this…but my love is a man."

Azelma just stood there. "A man?" she gawked. "How could you be in love with a man?"

"The same way a woman can love a man," Grantaire said gently. "I love him with every single fiber of my being. He is my very reason for existence, you see."

Azelma plunked down on the floor, thinking this over. She took the pair of sleep trousers and oversize shirt R proffered her, ducking behind a screen in the corner and changing. When she came out, she was still thinking. "Does he treat you well?" she asked.

R smiled. "Well, we do fight. We shout at each other and throw hurtful insults like barbs. But…we love each other. And he always apologizes, as I do I. No relationship is perfect."

"Oh." Azelma scooted close to the fire, flinching at a loud pop. "What is his name?" His, she thought. This may just be the oddest day of my life.

Grantaire slipped behind the screen to change into his nightclothes. "Julien Enjolras," he said. "He is the most beautiful man you'll meet. Charismatic and godlike."

"Oh," Azelma said. "Well…if you really do love each other…I suppose it could be alright."

"More than alright," R teased, emerging from the screen. "Now let's get you to bed."


End file.
